Four Words
by Dinkel
Summary: They say that confessing those famous three words is hard. Well, how hard does it have to be then to say four words?...Apparently bad summary, but I was told that it's very deep, poignant, romantic, cryworthy, well written... Find out yourself! Now betaed
1. I

**Disclaimer: Believe it or not, but none of the characters belongs to me and I really mean no offense to anyone. Oh, and I don't make any money with this. **

**Author's Note: Welcome to the betaed version of _Four Words_! I hope you like it. It's still SLASH, so if you don't like that, you can press the back button and be on your merry way. It's also in a wierd point of you, but it's kind of fitting. Well, I hope you like it. Merry Christmas to you.**

Beta: Tsubasa no Ryu, thanks for the wonderful job.

* * *

**I.**

I love you. You snort. They say it is difficult to say those three words. Liars. Idiots. You know better. You said them- countless times. You had success- always. They were returned- mostly. You meant them- sometimes. Seldom. Maybe never. You didn't tell him, though he so longs to hear them. You know that he needs to hear them, but you never say them. Not to him. Why, you don't know. Has it ever bothered you before to lie? No. Why with him? Why can't you give him what he so desires? That's the question, now, isn't it? Why didn't you love him, not why you didn't say so. That is clear. He would see right through your lie. He's beautiful, he's intelligent, he's more than you probably deserve.

He's at home now. Waiting for you, preparing your dinner or cleaning the house. You always tell him to let the house-elves do that. He says that he likes to do it for you. For you, do you hear? He would do anything for you and he doesn't expect you to say those three words. Maybe he hopes for it, you don't know. What do you know about him? About that angel that graced you with his presence? Enough? You know better than to think that you understand him. He's a miracle and where he is miracles are said to happen. You will never truly understand him. Never.

Do you know enough to make such a decision? To hurt him? No, you don't want to hurt him. He is your angel, too. But would you do anything for him? No. You wouldn't lie. You somehow doubt that is as positive as you would like it to be. You have lied so often, to him, too, and now you can't anymore. Why? Or why can't you just continue like this? Not lying, but not telling the truth, either? He never complains, he is happy.

Is he? You see him in the mornings and then when you come back from work. He's always smiling at you, asking about your day, massaging the tenseness away. Do you ever ask him what his day was like? Do you know what he does apart from cleaning and cooking? Yes, you do. You know that he draws pictures for children's books. It's his job after all. You know that he loves it. There is so much life in those pictures, so much magic. Besides, it allows him to hide away from the public eye. You know how much he hates to be pushed into the limelight. Of course, you do. How could you possibly not? It's the only thing you really fight about. Well, not fight. He never fights, he pleads with you and you force him to go. For your sake. You tell yourself that you always make up for it by visiting his friends with him and of course... Yes, he likes those rewards as well, though if you were honest you would admit that you like them just as much, maybe more. Would you be able to withhold? No, probably not. You know he could. Feelings are so much more important to him than sex. So much more important than to you.

Then why can't you lie? Why can't you pretend? You are a master of pretending, you pride yourself on it.

And yet you are willing to hurt him. You plan to hurt him. Today. You have been planning for a while, haven't you? First it was his birthday. You are not that cruel. Then he went to that ministry function with you. You are not ungrateful, either. Halloween. You won't make him lose another person on that particular day. His friends' marriage. You owed it to him to accompany him. You were not going to destroy that day for him. Christmas. Of course not. Your own birthday. You know how much of an effort he made and you don't want to deal with his breakdown on your birthday. You know you are stalling it on purpose. You know that you deliberately search for excuses. You know that you only make it worse

That's why you will finally do it today. You will finish work early before you can be overwhelmed by another bout of cowardice and go home, where he will be waiting for you. If you are early enough he won't have started dinner yet, which would make the whole situation less awkward and shorter. You know that it's a futile hope.

You banish the stack of papers still waiting for you. You have to do it now. Your secretary looks surprised as you walk past her with your cloak donned and no files to accompany you, but she's too well experienced to question you and just quietly wishes you a pleasant evening.

You snort inaudibly as you make your way outside and then apparate home. Is it your home? Or his? You insisted on paying for it, but he furnished it, painted the walls, made it homey. You will leave it to him, then at least he won't have to worry about packing and moving. You try to quench the part of your mind that tells you it is a cheap and low way of yours to buy his forgiveness. He will never forgive you. No, if you were in his stead you would never forgive yourself. He is different.

You shouldn't be doing this to him. You know it all too well. He doesn't expect anything from you, he gives you everything. You shouldn't hurt him. He has been hurt too often. You shouldn't add to that. He doesn't deserve it. Just turn back around now, buy some flowers for him, make him happy! Why can't you make him happy, why can't you love him? You don't know, but you are sure that you don't. He's perfect, maybe he is too perfect. But no, it is not his fault. You will not blame this on him. You will not!

You walk slowly and still your steps eat the gravel garden path he arranged. There are flowers on the sides, not many considering the time of the year, but still enough to show how much he takes care of them. He sometimes has smudges on his face and hands when you return home. It's endearing, isn't it? There's even a small pond and you remember him telling you about a few ducks which settled there. Most likely he feeds them, that would be like him. He sometimes sits out here and draws. He says it inspires and soothes him. Today it's too cold and windy and rainy. How fitting, isn't it?

You approach the porch with trepidation in every step. The door isn't locked, it never is. He claims that he doesn't want to lock himself in. This is not a prison, he says, everyone is free to come and go as they please. You usually lock it when you come home, though, you don't fancy the thought of anyone just walking in and surprising you. He always laughs at that, but doesn't complain. Does he ever complain? No, not really, he's satisfied with what you are willing to give him. Maybe he won't see that as a big deal, either.

He must have already known after all or at least suspected it. Maybe you are the only one making a fuss about it. Maybe things will go back to normal, as if you hadn't said anything. Do you need to say it then? If he already knows? Yes, you have to. He deserves to know. You can still hope that you aren't right with how you think he will react.

He greets you, a bit surprised but with his usual breathtaking smile. He asks if something is wrong, directly after apologising that dinner isn't ready, yet. You can see that he is worried. Worried about you. You don't beat around the bush, you did that long enough.

"I have to tell you something," you say and his forehead furrows as he nods and leads you to the living room.

He pats the sofa next to him invitingly, turning to face you. You try to keep as much distance between you as is possible without being blazingly obvious. You know that he notices, but he continues looking at you, waiting for you to find the right words.

Four words. You know you have to say them, but it is so hard. You wish that you could reduce it to three words. How you wish three words would be enough. Then he would smile at you, throw himself into your arms so that you'd lose your balance and you would make love and live happily after. That's exactly what would happen. You consider lying. Not for the first time. Everything would be so easy and perfect. A perfect lie.

He is still looking at you and you can see him kneading his hands. He's distressed. You are making him nervous. You make yourself nervous. You take a deep breath. Now or never? Now.

"I don't love you." You say it clearly, not rushed, not quietly, and his heart shatters.

You can see it just as clearly. His hands still, his head lowers, his eyes close. Sharp shards of his heart tearing him up from the inside, piercing him, torturing him, killing him. He breathes out. You can see him fighting for composure. So unlike him to lock in his feelings. No, that's wrong. He has more masks than you. It's just so long since you have seen him hide behind them. It's a defensive mechanism. You have hurt him.

"Thanks for being honest," he says, his voice is calm, too calm. "I'll pack my things."

He stands up, but you stop him: "You can stay here. I'll go."

"I don't want to stay." He falters a little and abruptly turns his back on you, you know he's crying.

You don't know what else to say and watch him leave the room. He closes the door softly behind him. You can hear him climb the stairs as you sink back onto the sofa. Now that went well. You can't help becoming sarcastic. It's how you deal with feelings. What are you feeling? Besides not love? Pity, perhaps? Do you pity him? Because you broke his heart? No, he is stronger than that. He will survive. He will be better off with someone who loves him. Maybe you are confused because he was so composed? It only shows that you were right. He suspected something. It is surely better like this. Guilt. Yes, you feel guilty, don't you?

You can hear him come back down again only ten minutes later. His steps are soft, almost inaudible and you only hear them because you are used to listening closely for him. Normally he would come to you now, sit down in your lap or snuggle into your side. But today is anything but normal.

The house is soon silent. So dead. You finally stand up and walk up the stairs and into your bedroom. He didn't take much. Only his own clothes, a few things from the bathroom, his drawings and his private belongings. He didn't touch any of the things you bought together. The many books, the few knick-knacks you brought home from your trip to Spain, the television and the extra blanket you gave to him because he always seemed to be cold. Even the easel that was your birthday present for him.

Maybe he will come back later to fetch the rest of his belongings.

Once he has calmed down.

* * *

**Reviews are always appreciated...**


	2. II

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

**Author's Note: Here's part two. Also betaed. I'll upload the other two chapters tomorrow. At the moment my internet is a bit whacky...**

**Beta: Tsubasa no Ryu, thank you.**

* * *

**II.**

Three months pass before you see him again. At your best friend's wedding. Of course he is invited. Everyone knows him, and what is more important, everyone likes him. You like him too, don't you? You just don't love him.

He's still beautiful, you didn't expect it to change, but you can see the fine lines of sadness etched into his face, can see that his eyes are just that tad bit duller, that he smiles less. Maybe that's merely what you want to see. Maybe he's just recovering from the flu. You had it too; you called off work for two days to get better. You tell yourself that that's the reason he is so pale, so thin, so worn out.

You see him chatting with your friend and you wait a little bit longer, go to the bar to get something to drink. You didn't see him during the ceremony. You try to pretend that you didn't look for him either. Your friend told you that he accepted the invitation. You asked him if he would bring someone. Your friend didn't know. Now you see it for yourself. He came alone.

You are not the only one who noticed. A Ravenclaw you only know by sight is hitting on him and you can see him blush. You know it is all too easy to make him blush and you love it. No, you don't **love** it, you like it, that's all. He's blushing and ducks his head, you think that he's chuckling, but it's hard to tell from your point of view. That Ravenclaw puts a hand on his shoulder and you can see his eyes sparkle as he looks up with that breathtaking smile of his.

You watch them as they swirl over the dance floor and something like jealousy flares in your chest. Yours! He is yours! He shouldn't be dancing with someone else! But he isn't yours anymore, is he? You pushed him away, you had to tell him the truth just to satisfy some feeble Hufflepuff tendency of yours. You hurt him, you broke his heart. Do you really want him to keep pining over you, to never find someone else? Wasn't that your reason for telling him in the first place? So that he could find someone who returns his love? Not so selfless anymore, are you? Thoughts of a spoilt child. You still don't love him, but no-one else should love him, either, and more importantly, he shouldn't love someone else. Your brow furrows as you come to that conclusion. He deserves better than you. You know that. Why can't you grant him a bit of happiness? Merlin knows, he hasn't had much of it in his life. You had your chance.

Still, your eyes follow him. They are glued to his slim form, to his unblemished skin, to his brilliant eyes, to his silky hair, to his graceful movements. Your ears strain to catch every word that falls from those soft, pink lips, every laughter. You can almost imagine his scent that always entranced you. He smells like his garden in spring, still fresh and new and beautiful. Just like him. He always seems so youthful, so full of energy, but at the same time he has a range of experience and a sapience that goes well beyond his age. Like spring. It's always new and like the first time, but there have been countless springtimes before and it is like an age-old tradition for new flowers to break through the earth and to blossom. He is spring. What are you? His winter? His ice that destroys everything with its unyielding cold? Would you have destroyed him, had you stayed? Maybe. You will never know for sure. Maybe he would have managed to melt the ice around your heart.

You have long since lost the habit of pretending that your heart isn't tightly warded and guarded and protected so that no-one will be able to hurt you. You know that it's true, but you never regretted it. It is part of your personality and he knew that when you got involved.

You have hurt a lot of people, broken a lot of hearts- you never felt responsible. If they had wanted a lovey-dovey romantic sap they shouldn't have agreed to go out with **you**. You can count, on one hand, the number of occasions when you bought flowers or arranged a picnic or did something as hopelessly cliché as that. And all those occasions were in connection with him:

You bought him flowers and chocolate and sent them to him after your first date, you even bothered to floo him right the next day. You made him breakfast after your first time together: The eggs were burnt, the coffee tasted like rinse water or perhaps skele-growth, you broke three of his plates, the tray was covered in sugar, the bacon had crumpled to an unappetising mess, there was only a deplorable rest of orange juice left in one glass, after you had to use the rest of it to put out the fire in the pan with what was supposed to be pancakes, you had a headache and were in a very foul mood- but you made him breakfast! If you remember correctly, he was laughing so hard that tears were running down his face and you went out instead, while you kept thinking why you didn't just order breakfast. You learned from it, though, and when the time came for his birthday you got the house-elves to prepare you a picnic basket. In was an enjoyable day, wasn't it? You were certainly happy as he snuggled into you and then thanked you in that unique way of his. It did pay off to be nice to him.

You start to think that maybe you made a mistake. No, not a mistake, you don't make mistakes. It was merely that you reached an ill-informed conclusion. If you had know that you would miss him so much and that sleeping around wouldn't be nearly half as fun as it used to be... Would you still have done it? Set him free? Because, face it, you were using him, abusing the power you held over him by knowing that he loves you and being free of the obligation to return those feelings. How often did you demand that he do something for you? How often did you wake him in the middle of the night just to sate your lust? How often did you do something in return?

You hardly listen to your friend as he rambles on about his bride, their house, the planned honeymoon or some other such nonsense. You sip your drink. You know that your friend won't hold it against you. He's used to it. He is one of the few who can deal with this and won't be offended. That's the reason you are friends.

"Just go over to him," he finally says, rolling his eyes and you make a non-committal noise in the back of your throat because you haven't listened to him. "He's bound to notice you staring."

You finally snap out of your thoughts and look up at him with confusion: "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Of course not," he is mocking you now, his lips quirking into a sardonic smile. "You only talked about him non-stop for the last three months, but why should you remember him?"

You glare at him, but he is wholeheartedly unimpressed and just waves you away: "I have better things than to argue with you about your non-existing love-life on my wedding day. Contact me when you pulled your head out of your arse."

He turns away and you curse him silently as he kisses his wife and leads her to the dance floor, laughing happily and all in all giving off the appearance of a happily newly-wed couple, which they are of course. You doubt that the marriage will last. She's superficial and cares more about her looks and counting calories than about sharing someone's life or at least leading a stimulating conversation. You told him so, he agreed and laughed. That's just him, he doesn't expect it to be perfect or to last. He lives for the moment. Maybe you should do so too, then you would still be together with him.

It is inevitable that you bump into each other, he's coming from the dance floor and you take a step back into his way to avoid being trampled by a pair of over-enthusiastic Hufflepuffs.

You turn around, a fake apology on your lips before those startling eyes register with you: "I'm sorry."

He smiles, but you can see that it is strained and that it hurts him to see you: "It doesn't matter."

"I am really sorry," you emphasise, reaching out before unsurely dropping your hand, and the words get a whole new meaning.

You realise that those four words are just as true as those fateful other four words. You are sorry. Sorry for hurting him, sorry for reminding him, but most of all sorry for not loving him.

His smile turns sad and you see the starting of tears in those eyes: "It's fine. I'll see you around."

With that he turns around and disappears in the crowd. You don't see him for the rest of the evening, not in reality, anyway.

Instead you meet his friends. You can't say yourself if it was intentional on your part, on their part or just pure coincidence. You stand there against the bar, ordering another drink, thinking vaguely that maybe you should stop before you get royally pissed, but not caring much either way. They are suddenly next to you, one of their children safely tucked in his mother's arms. It looks like there is another on the way.

The greetings are more or less neutral, too civil to be natural, but lacking the hostility you have almost expected after that break-off.

"So how have you been?" she asks.

"I can't complain. Yourself?" you return, mentally rolling your eyes- why doesn't she get to the point at once?

"Fine," she nods with a smile, "Taran is teething."

Didn't you always wonder about that?

"You broke his heart," he finally bursts out and you are almost thankful for his lack of tact. "He isn't doing too well."

"Oh?" you draw up the mask of carefully crafted indifference and you see him clench his hands into fists.

"No, he's not... himself," she falters. "He cries a lot and he eats little."

You don't know what to respond. You don't owe **them** an apology.

"He doesn't want us to be angry with you," she adds softly. "You know how he is and I can't really hold it against you that you were honest. But maybe it would be best if you stayed away from him so that he can heal."

"I stayed away from him for the last months," you defend yourself- why do you feel the need to defend yourself, by the way? "It's not like I'm stalking him."

She nods: "All I'm asking is that you won't purposefully seek him out. It shouldn't be too difficult, seeing as he hardly goes out anymore."

"Is it that bad?" you hear yourself asking and she nods once more: "He really loved you, he still does and that you turned him down seemingly destroyed his will to live. We try to get him to move on, but he's still as stubborn as ever."

"Just leave him alone," he concludes that statement with a string of derogatory names and you take your leave.

See what you have done? No four words can make up for it.

* * *

**Don't forget to review #wink#...**


	3. III

****

**Disclaimer: Did you know that J. K. Rowling decided to let Harry live? Well, if I owned all those wonderful characters, he would die. So the conclusion we draw from that? Exactly, it's not mine!**

**Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I got inspiration for this chapter while having to read a book for my German class "Effi Briest" by Theodor Fontane, though why I'm telling you this, I don't know...**

**Oh, and please don't kill me after reading this chapter because firstly I blame it all on my muse and secondly I still have one chapter to fix it...**

**Beta: Thanks, Tsubasa no Ryu.**

**

* * *

**

**III.**

The owl reaches you in the middle of the night. You recognise her at once. She's his owl, though she always seemed more like a sentient confidant to you than a real bird. He talked to her, you saw them often enough to know that he draws comfort from her familiar presence.

But what is she doing here? He has no reason to write you. What could he possibly say that you don't already know? He's not one to just randomly rant at someone to vent off his anger. There was no incident to startle him into sending you a letter.

The owl hoots impatiently, sticking out her foot, and for a moment you have the stupid thought that she's worried. You slide the small folded piece of parchment- so unlike Wizarding traditions- open and instead of his familiar, messy scrawl a precise and neat handwriting greets you. It's from his friend. Short, to the point, shocking. He's in St. Mungo's. His heart gave out and he's fighting for his life.

Is he? You can see the worry on her tired face as you push into the secluded waiting room for those who are waiting for someone loved to make it out alive. You don't know why she contacted you, you don't really care either. You care about him, you like him dearly, you don't want him to die. Of all the possible people, you want him the least to die. Your parents. Well, you wouldn't be exactly happy of course, you are not that heartless, but you never quite agreed with your father's morality, or lack thereof, or your mother's extravagance and frivolity, since you started to have independent thoughts and made your own decisions. You would be sad for a while and then continue living your everyday life. Your friend. Of course you would miss him, you would miss him dearly. It would be hard to live without him, but in the end he had a fulfilled life and you know that he would rather die young than to grow old and senile. No, you would get over his death eventually.

But he? You always felt the need to protect him, didn't you? He's so frail, so fragile and you know how much he gives everyone around him. You doubt the world could ever be the same without him. You doubt **your** world could ever be the same. You may not love him, but you care greatly about him and your heart, if you have one, aches at the thought of losing him. Didn't you lose him the moment you told him that you had no love for him?

You still don't know what happened to land him here. His friends can't tell you much. He just collapsed while playing with their son. You refrain from making a scathing remark about monster children, you can't think of a good one, either. They brought him here and were ushered out by the healers. And now you wait.

One hour passes. And another one. And yet another one before a healer in crisp white robes enters the waiting room and approaches your group. You try to read his expression, try to find out whether he is still alive at least, but there's nothing in that old wrinkled face. Well, except for wrinkles. Most likely he's used to doing this and whatever he has to do- tell you that everything went fine or that the patient is dead- he probably had to do so countless times before.

"We were able to stabilise him and though he will need time to recover and though we would like to keep him here for monitoring, he is in no immediate danger anymore," the healer tells you and you scowl, sensing that not everything is rosy- it seldom is with him.

"Well, will he be completely fine again or do we have to expect something like this to happen again?" you challenge and he sighs: "For some reason his heart has weakened and can't pump as much blood as would be necessary to support his body. We gave him a potion to counteract those effects, but there is little we can do if he doesn't start to fight on his own. There's nothing physically wrong with him, nothing at least that we wouldn't be able to correct within minutes, but his magic interfered with our healing spells, instead of protecting him. I have to ask this: Did you notice any suicidal tendencies with him? Did he seem depressed, morose, careless. Anything could help us in our diagnosis."

You can feel his friend's glare on you as he spits out: "All of that, though I never thought he would go so far as to try to kill himself."

"That's not it," his wife chastises him, "right, healer? He didn't do anything to intentionally land himself in the hospital."

The healer nods: "You are right, miss. He isn't consciously trying to jeopardise our efforts, but a wizard's psyche is a fragile thing and when the magic starts to interfere..."

He trails off and you glare at him. Why, you are not sure, but it seems better than to break out into tears.

"Can we see him?", she asks and you are allowed in.

The room is nice enough, for a hospital room, anyway, with a rather large window, boring white walls, and crisp white curtains. There's a wash basin and a slightly loose mirror over it and a small plastic cupboard that doesn't look all that stable. There's nothing personal in that room and it seems for a moment like this isn't his room at all, like you had accidentally entered a stranger's room.

But he is there, sleeping on the bed, maybe he is unconscious. You don't know and it is hard to tell. He looks so small. He was always small of course, you easily tower over him and it was almost too easy to trap him in your arms. And he looks pale. Was he always that pale? You don't think so. There always used to be a soft golden hue on his skin, so soft it was barely noticeable, but you loved it. Now there are dark circles under his eyes, his cheeks look sunken and his chest rises and falls too regularly to be natural. They did something to make him breath.

How bad must it be if he needs those spells? You conjure up a chair and sit down next to him. You stare at his small hand, not sure if you should really take it into your own, but then the burning need to have some physical proof that he is still alive overwhelms you and you gently wrap your own hand around it. You can't remember it ever feeling so light as you slowly caress the soft skin. You can feel the fine bones under your fingers, so small, so fragile.

You couldn't tell how long you sit there, staring at his face, wavering between thinking that you can see the pain written into it and thinking that it's completely impassive, dead, so unlike him. You are not sure which option is better.

When he stirs and his eyes flutter open you shift a little in your chair, inexplicably nervous that he will reject you, that he won't want you here.

But first he greets his friends. You can see him smile as he is being chastised for scaring them. He apologises and they calm down. It's funny, you could have apologised three days straight and they wouldn't have forgiven you for whatever you did wrong and he only has to say "I'm sorry" and their eyes turn soft again. It doesn't really bother you though, you wouldn't apologise anyway and you know how easily you happen to be wrapped around his thin finger. Maybe that's why you broke up with him, maybe that's why you rejected his love, why you fled. Maybe you wanted to show him that you are not completely under his charm yet.

Maybe, but it was still the truth. So what if you were afraid? You still only told the truth! Curious, isn't it? Normal people tend to start lying when they are scared or feel in a tight corner. You start to be honest.

He almost imperceptibly winces as he sees you sitting on his other side and turns his head away again. You try to say something, anything, but your mouth feels dry and your head empty. You hope that his friends will break the uncomfortable silence and tension hanging in the room, but they have gone home most likely to look after their brats. You can't remember them leaving. Maybe they have only gone to get some coffee. But as you keep waiting they don't come back.

You still don't know what to say. You don't know what you are doing here. Why you came in the first place, why she informed you about his condition. You don't know a lot of things.

The bed sheets whisper as he shifts and curls up on his side, his back still towards you. It's clear that he doesn't want to see you. It's all too clear. Why don't you go?

You keep sitting till the night nurse tells you that visiting time is long since over and that he really needs his rest now. You nod and stand up, slowly walking around the bed.

"Get better for me," you whisper, looking deep into his eyes.

You can see that he has been crying, because of you. You don't want him to hurt, but even less you want him to die.

"Get better for me," you repeat the four words and he nods slowly, resigned and broken.

You unsurely lift your hand to brush away a strand of hair that fell into his face, but he once again turns around. It hurts. Maybe now you feel at least a little of the hurt he felt when you rejected him. You deserve it, don't you? You deserve to suffer. **You** deserve it!

You think of his eyes as you make your way to the apparation area. They never seemed so big before, so innocent, so pained. You remember them filled with laughter and joy. Was it so bad? Was it so bad that you had to end it? And now he's in the hospital because of you! Was it worth it? A few one-night-stands to substitute his eternal love and care? How can you think that this was a wise decision? How can you pretend that you are content with how things are? He was willing to love you and you pushed him away. For that? You are disgusted with yourself. You could have learned to love him, you are sure of that now. He has everything you could desire in a man and you are definitely into men. He is perfect and if anything you always admired perfection. But now it's too late, even he won't take you back after what you have done.

You are stopped by the healer: "Will you come back?" you shrug, too tired to formulate a reply. "I think it would be good for him from what I heard from his friends. There's little we can do for him. What he needs now are friends."

"I don't think he considers me a friend" you shoot back testily, ready to turn your back on him.

"But when you come to see him it will show him that you care," he replies. "He needs people who care."

"I have a job," you snap, though you don't know why you are protesting so much.

You want to see him, don't you? You want to have him back as a part of your life. You want to see him get better.

"Of course, but it would already help if you visited once a week or so," the healer says and for a moment his wise eyes seem to look right into your soul, "maybe on the weekend."

"I'll see if that can be arranged," you turn around before he can add something more and hasten out of the hospital.

* * *

**#waves with REVIEW-flag#**


	4. IV

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter books or the characters and I mean no offense to anyone...**

**Author's Note: Here's the last betaed chapter. Hope you like it. Merry Christmas again!**

**Beta: Tsubasa no Ryu, thank you so much!**

**IV.**

You visit him every two days over the next two months. You never talk much, but sometimes you bring him flowers and you even bought a potted plant for his room. You also brought him his sketch pad and you make sure that he eats something else than hospital food.

He looks much better now, though you can still clearly see his shoulder blade when the hospital gown sometimes slips over his small shoulders. He sometimes draws and you sometimes come early enough to see him interact with his friends. His behaviour is so different with them! He even laughs and smiles at them and he animatedly tells them about his day, though there's not much to tell. But when he's finished, they take over and you can see how he comes to life when they tell him about their kids or about mutual friends. You always found it refreshing to have him listen to you like this, didn't you? It didn't matter what you told him, if it was about your job, politics or gossip, he always had an insight into things and you could be sure that he would find solutions to seemingly unsolvable problems. But now he doesn't anymore. Truth be told, you don't try to involve him in a conversation, either, since you are not sure he would respond at all.

"Why do you keep coming?" he suddenly asks, looking up from whatever he has sketched on his notepad.

"Don't you want me to come?" you ask back, not knowing the answer to his question yourself.

"I want to know why you keep coming," he insists and there's the old fire burning in his eyes.

"Because I want to make sure that you are okay," you say after a bit of hesitation. "I care about you."

"But you don't love me," he sadly turns back to his sketchpad and you relapse into silence until you go home again.

He doesn't bring the subject up anymore and neither do you. You keep bringing him flowers from his garden. It is still his garden and you sometimes describe it to him. Those are the only times he smiles in your presence.

The time pulls closer when he's allowed to leave the hospital and you worry about him. What if he has another attack? What if no-one is there to help him this time? What if you never see him again?

"I want you to move back in," you say suddenly and his head snaps up.

"What?"

"I want you to move back in so that I can make sure you stay out of the hospital for the rest of your life," he merely stares at you and you start to feel self-conscious, something that is very foreign to you.

"I'm not suicidal," he finally presses out and annoyance clearly radiates off of him.

"I know that," you protest and for the first time your hand once again closes around his, squeezing it tightly. "I know, but you can't deny that you aren't exactly healthy. Let me take care of you."

"Well, that's very considerate," you can't remember ever hearing so much sarcasm in his voice, "but I already made arrangements to stay with my **friends**. I will look after Taran and Miles."

"You want to scare them when you have another heart attack?" you ask mildly, knowing that this is the only way to convince him; he blanches. "They can come visit if you want to."

He bites his lips and finally nods. It's barely perceptible. You smile at him to reassure him, but it does little but irritate him.

"What about my things?" he asks and you get up.

"I'll fetch them for you if you give me the address," you offer and he reluctantly tells you where he lives now. "I'll talk about it with your healer. Is it okay for you if we move you before dinner?"

He nods and you leave for his apartment. It's not exactly the best area and you shudder involuntarily at the thought that he lived here all alone for more than three months. Merlin knows what could have happened to him! You know that he is far from defenceless, but you still think this a bit dangerous as you meet some of the characters that seemingly live around here. How could you allow this? You should never have let him out of your sight! You are sure there's not one but several pimps and drug dealers amongst this filthy scum. Your poor... Yes, what is he now? Your ex-boyfriend? That really wouldn't warrant the attention and care you are giving him. Your friend? Oh, certainly, because every friend is lusting after his friend and wants to shag him senseless or rather some sense into him. How could he choose to live in such an area? You know he's far from poor, he could have afforded a much better place.

The stairs creak under your cautious step as you follow his directions to the attic flat. You can feel the wards tingle as you approach the door. At least he isn't completely careless with his life! The flat is tidy and pleasantly clean, especially in comparison to the rest of the house, but you guess that even the long forgotten storerooms in Hogwarts would look neat and hygienic in comparison to the rest of the house. The flat is modestly furnished with a small loveseat and a low table, a kitchenette with decidedly Muggle devices and a cot-like bed in the corner, separated from the main room by a long blue curtain. You can see his pencils strewn over the table and a half-finished painting leaning against the wall, but other than the photo of him and his friends there's hardly anything personal in this room. You futilely look for a picture of you.

What did you expect? A shrine with pictures of you, maybe some of your hair, spyglasses, a camera, snapshots of you talking with someone else? He's not a stalker! But still you expected, hoped maybe for a little sign that he still loves you. Not much, no, you don't want to think about how much he missed you, but it would be nice to know that he missed you at all.

You are unsure what to pack and so you snap for your house-elf, Daisy, and tell her to pack his things and bring them home. The brilliant smile threatens to spilt the small creature's face and you scowl. You know very well that they always liked him more. No, they love him, you are tolerated. Your food was burnt and inedible for over a week after he had left.

You return to the hospital and on the spur of a moment you get him his favourite takeaway. He's waiting for you, sitting on his hospital bed, in loose-fitting jeans and a black and blue sweater that falls over his hands as he stands up. You go to support him and wrap an arm around his waist, ignoring the scowl that appears on his face.

"Are we ready to go?" you ask and lead him out of his room.

You apparate the both of you, if only to have an excuse to take him into your arms again, and then walk him up to your house. The garden looks a bit unkempt, but it still preserves the beauty of happier days when he still called this his home.

You know you made a mistake. A mistake you can't make undone anymore. Your home is where he is and his home is where love is. Can you give him love? Or are you incapable of loving anyone but yourself? You almost fear so. Not quite. If you love anyone it is him. How does love feel? How could you ever reach the conclusion that you don't love him when you don't even know what love feels like?

You try to recollect everything you ever read or heard about love. It isn't much, but it fits the description of what you feel for him. The basics at least. You can't really claim that you have butterflies in your stomach. You think that would be kind of gross, especially if they are still alive. You have no idea what eating living butterflies has to do with loving someone, but you would do so if it made him happy. You think that is enough to claim that you love him. You would do anything for him. Now you would. Would you have done so half a year ago? Most likely, but you weren't going to tell him. Now you are willing to.

The house-elves are standing in line as you enter and bow deeply to him before hugging him around the knees. He laughs and you are mesmerised by the sound.

"Master is home," one of the little creatures squeaks. "We is so worried about Master."

"I'm fine, Toodles," he soothes them, gently disentangling himself from the mop of elves, "just a bit tired. Would you mind preparing one of the guest rooms for me?"

"We is not minding," they bow again and disappear into different directions almost immediately.

They never obey you without muttering under their tiny little breaths.

"Let's eat, okay?" you say to break the silence and he follows you to the dining room, tucking his feet up on the chair as you hand him one of the packages and eating sticks.

You can see him picking his food rather than eating it and you sigh. He needs to eat, you won't have him too nervous to eat.

"I think we have to talk," you say it softly so as to not to startle him, but he looks up almost immediately.

"What about?"

"About what happened between us. I'm sorry for what I said and I regret it deeply. I didn't mean it."

There you said it. Another four words. Another truth.

"Don't lie," he hisses at you, narrowing his eyes. "Don't you dare mock me. You don't love me, fine. I'm over it. Don't flatter yourself by thinking you are the reason for my weak heart! Are you really so self-centred that you not once considered that there might just be another reason? They only die of heartbreak in novels!"

"I didn't lie," you plead with him. "I thought I didn't love you when I said it. I thought I would never learn to love you, either, and so I decided to leave before it would hurt you even worse, before you got your hopes up. I know it was stupid, I'm not above doing stupid things, I realise that now. I have constantly been thinking about you and I missed you terribly. I don't expect you to forgive me, but if you still love me and even if you don't, I want you to know that I return your feelings.

"I don't believe you," he insists.

"What can I do to make you believe?"

"I don't know," he mutters and the first tear makes its way down his cheek- your want to wipe it away.

"Maybe I have an idea," you smile at him, extending one hand, which he takes reluctantly and lead him out into the garden.

No, not his garden. Your garden. The one you made. It's small, unimpressive and looks more like a battlefield than an actual garden, but you put a lot of effort into it. There's a pathetic and badly cut rose bush, which resisted your attempts of well-meant murder and even sports two single white blossoms. There's a small pond of water, which resembles a puddle more than anything and attracts a lot of insects. There's a bit of brownish grass left that's proudly decorated by a wind wheel. Gardening tools, most of which you still have to figure out how to use, lie scattered around. And there are some carefully arranged pebbles and shells that form a heart around your initials.

"I made it for you," you whisper. "I tried to understand why you loved your garden so much. I didn't want to destroy your work or change anything from how you left it, that's why I started it back here. I know it's not much, not any good."

"But you made it for me," he finishes for you, moving into your arms and allowing you to embrace him- how you missed this! "That's everything I ever wanted, you idiot."

"I'm sorry I was so stupid," you apologise. "Please believe me, it was never my intention to hurt you. I never learned to love. I'm not like you, it isn't natural to me to give something to someone without expecting anything in return. I thought I didn't need love to be happy. But I knew that it hurt you to never hear me say it. It didn't seem fair."

"I never expected it of you," he answers. "It would have been nice, certainly, but I was happy with what we had. It was enough for me to know that you enjoy being with me, to know that you were happy. Weren't you happy?"

"I was. I was very happy," you assure him and he audibly releases his breath. "It's just... I noticed how often your friends tell you that they love you and how wistful you look whenever they tell each other that they love each other. I thought you wanted what they had."

"I wanted what we had," he argues softly. "Do you think I'm so weak-willed to stay in an unhappy relationship?"

"No, I thought you pitied me."

He laughs and you are mildly affronted until he timidly kisses your cheek, leaning against you. You stand like this for a while, his head on your shoulder and your arms protectively around his waist.

Then you carefully step back and sink to one knee, despite the mud that immediately drenches your robes and present a small jewel box to him: "Will you marry me, love?" you ask gently, almost afraid of your own voice. "Will you give me a chance to prove how much I love you?"

He drops into the mud in front of you, putting his tousled head on your shoulder again as he whispers a barely audible "yes". You can feel his tears wet your collar and you close your arms around him, scooping him up.

"I never stopped loving you", he murmurs sleepily, cuddled against your chest and his silky hair tickling your nose.

"I fell in love with you the first time I saw you," you return and you realise that it's true.

He sighs and snuggles closer to you. He fits so perfectly against your body and you wonder how you could ever think about letting that angel go.

You should never have started using four-word sentences. "I love you", that is safe. "I don't love you" is destructive and results in you having to use sentences like "I am really sorry" and "Get better for me" and "I didn't mean it". It's seems impossible to stop once you started, like a very unhealthy addiction. You promise yourself that you will stick to the old-fashioned and well-approved three-word-sentences from now on. You won't lose him again. He's much too precious.

"I love you, Draco," he whispers already half asleep and you chuckle as he tugs the second blanket up around his form and help him to get comfortable.

"I love you, Harry," you answer and he presses closer to you.

You know that he doesn't believe you. What you said to him won't be so easily forgotten after all, though he has forgiven you for reasons you will most likely never understand. He's an enigma, an angel, a miracle and he is yours. You certainly don't deserve it, but you have the rest of your life to make him happy and to prove your love to him. To make him believe you. To use those three words that turned out to be much harder to say when you really mean them: I love you.

---THE END---

* * *

**I know you want to review and since I just told you so, you know it as well and can fulfil your innermost desire... Great, isn't it?**


End file.
